


Bloom

by angelbaby731



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 16:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19009837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelbaby731/pseuds/angelbaby731
Summary: My feet don't dance like they did with you.For Megan, on her birthday xoxo





	Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys! i wrote this one shot for my friends bday, its about sherlock teaching john how to dance for the wedding and explains the awkward eyecontact after its brought up in front of mary. hope you enjoy!

“Both of you now, go dance. We can’t just stand here, people will wonder what we’re talking about.” Sherlock broke the moment, unwilling to let the silence go on any longer. With Mary now expecting a child, he couldn’t look too far into John’s eyes. He was afraid of what he might find there.

“What about you?” Mary reached for his arm with a watery laugh.

John jumped in abruptly, “Well, we can’t all three dance, there are limits.”

He met Sherlock’s eyes only for a moment before Sherlock shifted his gaze to the floor.

“Yes, there are.”

“Come on, husband, let’s go.” Mary broke the silence this time.

John replied, uncertain, “This isn’t a waltz, is it?” Mary shook her head.

“Don’t worry, Mary, I have been tutoring him.”

“He did, you know, Baker Street, behind closed curtains. Mrs. Hudson came in one time. Don’t know how those rumors started.” Sherlock watched as the newly weds took to the dance floor, and allowed himself to fall back into the memory.

 

xxXXXxx

 

Sherlock was sat at his laptop, fingers steepled under his chin as he searched for a case. He’d watched an excessive amount of videos online about how to fold napkins and other such trivial weddings things, and was itching for a rush of adrenaline. He wasn’t even sure why he was trying so hard to make this wedding beautiful, when he knew that he resented it. In the time he’d been away, a tiny sprout had popped up in his chest, reminding him who he was doing everything for. He let it grow for a bit, but when he returned and found John with Mary, he tried to push it away and suffocate it. This had worked for a time, but the feeling was persistent, and soon was impossible to ignore. Now, he was forced to feel the small bud struggling to grow in his heart. _Anything for John_ , he supposed.

He suddenly became aware of a presence at the door, and he lifted his gaze to see John. John cleared his throat, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “How long have you been there?” Sherlock inquired.

John shrugged before blurting out, “I don’t know how to dance.”

The sentence hung in the air for a moment, as the the two men processed it. “And the problem is?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John scoffed, kicking at the floor. “Apparently, Mary and I can’t just sway during the first dance. She wants to do a waltz.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m currently composing a waltz.”

“And that’s fantastic, but I don’t know how to dance to it.”

“Take a class?” Sherlock suggested, but when he saw the horrified expression on John’s face, he wished he could take it back. John squared his shoulders. “Forget it, I’ll figure it out.”

As he turned to leave, Sherlock stood abruptly in a surge of confidence. “I could-“ He cut himself off when John turned around as quickly as Sherlock had jumped to his feet. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, before shyly saying “I could teach you, if you like.”

John stared at him blankly. “You?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You can dance?”

“Mother made me and Mycroft take lessons when we were small.” John stayed silent, countenance unreadable. Sherlock felt embarrassment bloom in his chest. The bud began to wilt.

“It was just a suggestion-“

“Yeah, no… Shit. I mean, yes. Please teach me.”

Sherlock was surprised. “Are you sure?” John nodded in response, not looking very sure, but Sherlock slowly turned and awkwardly plugged his phone into the speaker, the bud quivering, green leaves tickling his abdomen. As the music began to pour out from the speakers, John hung up his coat before meeting Sherlock in the middle of the sitting room.

“I will lead the first time, to show you what you’re meant to do.” John nodded slowly, not meeting Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock hesitantly held out his hand, and John slowly took hold of it. Sherlock guided John’s other hand to his shoulder, before placing his own hand on John’s back.

“A waltz has three counts per measure, with the emphasis being on the first note, so it goes ONE, two, three, ONE, two, three. Does that make sense?” John met Sherlock’s gaze with an incredulous expression, and Sherlock laughed, opting to show John rather than explain. As he led John about the space, turning as they moved, John seemed to catch on slightly. He began to anticipate changes in direction, and place his feet where they needed to be (except for a few minor missteps). His bud, the one he had done everything in his power to kill, began to bloom, stretching its eager red petals.

As the song came to an end, the door swung open to reveal a very confused Mrs. Hudson. The three just stared at each other for a moment, John still in Sherlock’s arms, before Mrs. Hudson’s hand flew over her mouth to restrain her giggles. Sherlock and John both began trying to explain, but she just waved them off, rushing back down the stairs. The two men locked eyes, unsure what to say in response. John cleared his throat.

“That should be enough practicing for one day.”

“But you haven’t learned to lead yet, I led you.” Sherlock replied hastily. John was already shrugging his jacket back on, halfway down the stairs, and called back over his shoulder, “I’ll come round tomorrow.”

Sherlock paused the music with a sigh, as it had restarted the song. He tried to push the feeling of John’s hand in his out of his mind, and settled down to continue his search for a case, choosing to neglect the small flower that had made a permanent residence in his chest.

The next evening, Sherlock paced in front of the fireplace, waiting for John to arrive. He had never said when he was planning on returning, and Sherlock was beginning to think he wouldn’t show.

Just as Sherlock was about ready to throw on his robe and crush the flower and its stupid fucking red petals under his foot, he heard the doorknob rattle. He spun on his heel as the blond haired man shyly opened the door, not making a real move to come in, but lowering his head apologetically.

“Sorry I’m late, Sher,” he began, his voice low. “I just—“

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not, I said I’d—“

“John. It’s fine.”

John took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as the two men held each other’s gaze. After what felt like an eternity, John shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the arm of the couch, and rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s get to it, then.”

Sherlock reached over to start the music, but before his fingers touched the speaker, John cleared his throat. “Might be wise to lock the door this time?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up, unsure what John was implying. John shrugged casually, continuing on to say they might avoid Mrs. Hudson and her overactive imagination if they locked it. “Oh,” Sherlock said, feeling the flower in his chest wilt. “Yes, maybe that’s for the best.” John hesitantly turned the lock on the door, facing Sherlock once again as the music began.

The two men met in the middle of the room once again, Sherlock guiding John’s hands to where his own had been the previous day. They stood there for a moment, unmoving, until Sherlock reminded John, “You’re leading. You must take the first step to guide me.”

John dipped his head, neck blossoming with red to match Sherlock’s flower. “Right, of course. Yes.” He shakily took the first step, and Sherlock effortlessly matched his movement. Filled with new confidence, John hastened his pace, guiding the two around the room a few times. As the final notes of the song faded into the air, John gripped Sherlock excitedly. “I wasn’t complete shit! I did it! I led you without tripping at all!”

Sherlock grinned encouragingly, the petals quivering. “Well, you hardly need any more practice, you’re a natural.”

John sobered at his comment. “Well... If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to pop round a few more times. You know, muscle memory and all that.”

Sherlock felt the petals brush his heart. “Of course.”

“Wouldn’t want me to trip up on the big day, now, would we?”

The petals stilled. Slowly, one by one, they folded back into their bud, where they were safe. Sherlock swallowed. “Of course,” he said again, this time fighting the cracks that threatened to shatter his words. John retrieved his jacket, and with one last triumphant look back at Sherlock, he disappeared from the doorway. Sherlock stared after him.

How had he forgotten about the damn wedding? For just a moment, it was as if they were the only two people on the planet, with no deadlines or responsibilities. Just them, spinning in time to the violin. His bud felt foreign in his chest, more like a stone than the quivering green tendril it had once been. He pushed thoughts of waltzes, flowers, and calloused, steady hands from his mind as he made himself a cup of tea.

Days passed before Sherlock heard from the blond haired man again. The man’s soon-to-be bride had been in contact, confirming which of her friends should be excluded from the wedding invitations, but John was radio silent. Sherlock had solved all of the Yard’s cold cases to pass the time (and to keep himself from tending to the struggling flower) but seeing as the Yard had no cases left, he was now hopelessly bored. He was lying on the couch, repetitively tossing the ridiculous deer stalker hat at the wall above him.

He had gone several days without showering (until Mrs. Hudson practically gave him a sponge bath— he had agreed to shower quite quickly after that) and had yet to eat. It was half seven when his phone chirped. Sighing, he lifted himself into his elbow and picked up his phone.

_**Dinner? -JW** _

Sherlock smiled to himself, feeling the petals peek out from their hiding place, before typing a response.

**_Starving. -SH_ **

He allowed his phone to slip through his fingers, falling on his chest. Steepling his fingers under his chin, he waited for John to respond. After about 10 minutes, however, the door swung open and John walked in with carry out. Sherlock looked at him from his place on the couch, John upside down in his vision as he moved about the flat. Sherlock swung his legs to the floor as John brought him a plate of pasta and broccoli.

John took a seat beside him and they ate in silence. Sherlock pushed a piece of broccoli around his plate as he waited for the other man to finish, taking his plate once he was done. As he walked into the kitchen, he felt John’s eyes on his back, probably questioning his host-like behavior. Once he had cleared the plates and stacked them in the cupboard, he prayed a silent prayer that the flower would, for once, not shiver at John’s touch, or droop at the lack thereof. He pressed his palms against the counter top, willing them to stop shaking. _Please._

As Sherlock waited for his heart to stop racing, the sound of approaching footsteps entered his consciousness. John reached into a cupboard and retrieved two wine glasses, holding out a bottle of white wine for Sherlock to view. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Mary wants me to test the wine she’s chosen, and I can’t usually tell the difference in wines. I’d rather we serve whiskey, but I don’t think she’d much appreciate that.” John chuckled, something else lurking behind his words. Sherlock heaved a sigh as John handed him a now full glass. He took a sip, letting the white liquid swirl in his mouth before swallowing.

“She chose this?” He inquired. John nodded in answer. “It’s not horrible, as far as wine goes. I’d rather you serve whiskey as well, but it will suffice.” John smirked and topped off Sherlock’s glass before setting the bottle back on the counter. He raised his glass in the direction of the living room.

“Shall we?”

Sherlock followed him out of the kitchen and set his glass down on his desk after taking one more long sip. If he was going to get through this without his precious bud wilting, he would need the extra confidence. He pressed play on the music, and John folded Sherlock into his arms in such a natural way, it felt as though they’d been doing this for years. John confidently took the first step and moved Sherlock effortlessly around the room, even taking the risk of twirling Sherlock once or twice. The ease with which John executed the twirl made Sherlock almost not even notice he had done it at all. Almost.

With an impressed smile, Sherlock continued to follow John’s movements, gliding across the floor. He hardly noticed when the song ended, until John released him and reached for his wine. He tilted the stem of the glass to the ceiling, draining what was left in it before shuddering. “It’s fucking awful,” he remarked, grimacing. “You have anything else?” Sherlock nodded towards a bottle on the floor next to his armchair, and John raised his eyebrow.

“Researching napkin folding and floral arrangements is tedious.” _And incredibly painful when they’re for your wedding._

Sherlock dismissed the thought from his head as quickly as it came, and John went to retrieve the bottle. He disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes, and Sherlock gladly took the time to give himself a talking to. He needed to relax. It was bad enough that John was getting married, but John also made him the best man. The role came with many responsibilities, including teaching the groom to dance, if need be. That was all this was. A duty he must fulfill.

He drank what was left in his glass as John returned from the kitchen. John handed Sherlock a new glass of scotch, and sat down in his chair.

His old chair.

A wave of nostalgia washed over Sherlock, tears springing to his eyes. He blinked them back. _It’s only the wine talking_ , he thought. _Only the wine_.

They sat in silence for a few seconds, sipping their drinks. After a moment, John cleared his throat and stood, reaching to turn on the music. Sherlock set his empty glass down and stood, moving to stand, once again, in John’s arms. They danced without speaking, the only sound being the music and the soft shuffling of their feet, moving as one. The song finished, and as it began again, Sherlock expected John to release him. He didn’t.

John continued to dance, but slowed his movements slightly, surely a consequence of the alcohol. Their gliding waltz became a slow sway, similar to what Sherlock imagined was the kind of dancing John would have preferred at the wedding. Sherlock was almost frightened to meet John’s eyes, but against his better judgement, looked down into the face of his old friend, the man he couldn’t stop himself from loving.

John was looking at him, eyes roaming his face, searching. Sherlock could feel the weight of his gaze as they traveled from his jaw, to cheekbones, to nose, and finally coming to rest on his lips. John finally lifted his chin and looked into the taller man’s eyes. There was some kind of emotion, something reverent, sacred, guarded. Sherlock could not deduce what that look meant, but the flower had its own ideas as it trembled. John held eye contact for a moment before flicking back to Sherlock’s lips.

“May I?”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. For the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to say.

He let his flower do the talking.

“Yes.”

Slowly, their lips drew closer, brushing once, then twice, then finally finding each other. They moved slowly, neither of the men daring to breath, for fear of coming to their senses. The hand that was on John’s hip snaked around his back, the other moving up to snake into his curls. Sherlock ran his hand along John’s shoulder and around his neck, the other moving to meet it. The flower burst open, stretching its petals as far is it could, blooming to fill his chest cavity, threatening to overtake his hammering heart. It’s curling green tendrils wrapped around his rips, securing their place there forever. The kiss grew deeper, both men losing track of time and reality. All that existed was them, waltz music, and a small flat above Speedy’s.

The men finally broke apart, Sherlock’s hands on John’s chest, John’s around Sherlock’s waist. Foreheads pressed together, neither knew how to break the silence. The silence was broken for them, by Mrs. Hudson opening the door.

She took in the sight before her with quiet dignity, but no matter how calm she was perceived to be, John became the exact opposite. Springing away from Sherlock, his hand came up to rub his forehead, eyes darting about the room. He took a deep breath, dropping his hand. “I’ll see you at the wedding, yeah?”

Without waiting for a response, he hurried out the door. Sherlock turned off the music, and silence filled the flat. Mrs. Hudson was, for once, at a loss for words. Neither of them dared to broach the subject, so they stood in silence until Sherlock finally turned around to face her. Her eyes had followed his movements to the speaker, but slid off of him as they took in the wine glasses, the bottle of whiskey, and finally, John’s jacket, still lying on the arm of the couch. She delicately picked it up, holding it close for a moment before offering it to Sherlock. He wearily accepted it, slipping it on over his shirt, and sat down on the couch.

Mrs. Hudson left for a few minutes, allowing him time to pluck each petal off of his flower, letting them gently fall to the bottom of his lungs. He couldn’t breathe, but that’s to be expected.

When she came back, Mrs. Hudson offered Sherlock a cup of tea, sitting down next to him. She still had yet to say anything, waiting for him to trust his voice enough to speak.

“He kissed me.”

“I reckoned, dear.”

“He fucking kissed me.”

Mrs. Hudson met him with sad eyes. “Oh, Sherlock...”

Sherlock shook his head. “No matter,” he said flippantly. “He’ll be married within the week. No sense in thinking about it.” He rose, letting the jacket and petals fall to the floor as he walked down the hall to his bedroom.

xxXXXxx

Sherlock shook his head, coming back to reality as John and Mary laughed. As the moved to the dance floor, Mary mouthed her thanks over John’s shoulder. Thank you for teaching my husband to dance. My husband.

Husband.

Sherlock strained a smile, then let his eyes fall to the floor. Defeated. He shook his head to avoid the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. He looked around, noticing everyone had someone to dance with. He locked eyes with Janine across the dance floor, and she gave him an enigmatic thumbs up as she gestured to the man she was dancing with. He smiled ruefully to himself, then turned to go collect his sheet music.

Sherlock folded the music and slid it into an envelope, on which he had written “Dr. and Mrs. Watson.” He left it on the music stand, collected his coat, and calmly waded through the sea of happy, dancing, people.

He stepped into the cool night air, swinging his jacket over his shoulders as he walked. He popped his collar, hardened his gaze, and hardened his heart. As he walked, he crushed each and every damn flower petal under his heels, reminding himself his last vow had been made earlier in the night.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading this far, hope you enjoyed!


End file.
